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The Arcadian Library 

I 

The Watchers of the Hearth 



THE WATCHERS 
OF THE HEART H 

BENJAMIN S LEDD 
The Arcadian Library 




Boston : THE GORHAM PRESS 
RICHARD G. BADGER, Manager, 1902 






D , ) . 



Copyright, 1901 
By Benjamin Sledd 



All rights reserved 



1 



$-!>* 



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Thf lis'rary of 

congress, 

Two Cot^ss Received 



C©PV^OHT ENTRY J 

CLASS d,XX& N 

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y^e Oorham Press, Bostop, 



To the memory of 

M AEG ARET 

whose life, beautiful as it was brief, 
has inspired what is best in this book. 



Contents 




To Sappho 


9 


The Quest 


12 


The Truants 


13 


The Passing of June 


16 


Our Lady of the Angels 


17 


Innominata 


18 


Intercession 


23 


Among the Laurel 


24 


In June 


25 


Love Knoweth no Season 


25 


The South-Sea Watch 


28 


To Otter Pass 


29 


The First Quarrel 


31 


The Builders 


32 


My Better Angel 


34 


Decadence 


35 


The Martyr's Thorn 


36 


Decadence-Renascence 


42 


My Silent Guest 


44 


Death-Bells 


45 


Over my Mother's Grave 


46 


The Watchers of the Hearth 


47 


The Death of Balder 


49 


Lear 


50 


The Children 


51 


At Dawn 


52 



The Maiden's Song 53 

By the Sea 54 

The Wraith of Roanoke 57 
The Vision of the Milk-White Doe 58 

Worship 59 

The Toiler's Plea 60 

October 61 

At Twilight 62 

On Looking Into an Old Tomb 63 

The Legend of the Valley 64 

Confession 68 

Ver Tenebrosum 69 

To the Evening Star 70 
Isaac - 71 

Two Brothers 74 

The Broken Prayer 83 

"As Some Lone Drudge" 84 



To Sappho. 
I 

Might each but claim of Time's unfeel- 
ing hand 

Some treasure reft of man so long ago 

That fancy's utmost can but dimly show 

The glory of the gifts we would de- 
mand, — 

What gift were mine? — In that far 
Lesbian land 

To pluck from some forgotten tomb a 
scroll 

Writ with those songs of woe and pas- 
sion, — whole, 

In characters of Sappho's own sweet 
hand. 

Or yet to lie one hour upon the shore, 
While far off come and go the long- 

prored ships, 
And watch that hand divine flash o'er 

the lyre, 
And hear the numbers flow from her 

wild lips, — 
To drink of her dark, regal eyes the fire, 
And, passing, feel no meaner rapture 

more. 



9 



II 

'/ yearn and seek. 

Thou, in whose broken lines and chance- 
spared word 

(The envy of Apollo didst thou earn?) 

The fires of Aphrodite quenchless burn, 

And accents of the Muse herself are 
heard — 

Thy hands, what gift of mortals could 
they seek? 

For what poor earthly boon thy bosom 
yearn ? 

Or was all wisdom lent thee but to 
learn 

How sad thy woman's fate, thy heart 
how weak? 

Was love thy quest? Alas, how slight 

a thing 
The one, one kiss we crave: and wanting 

this 
Makes dust and ashes of all other bliss. 
Yet love attained had been a deeper woe, 
For gift of song was given thee but to 

sing 
Of all the yearning life alone may know. 



10 



Ill 

Love was it? Yet I would nat have it 

so, — 
That being, meant for loftiest heights, 

as thine, 
And soul all perfect else, should once 

decline 
On common ways where heart-sick mor- 
tals go. 
The light of dark, full eyes, the lip's 

warm glow, 
Could these vain, passing charms, bring 

thee to pine, 
When nightly from yon steep kindling 

divine, 
Apollo woos with harp-calls wild and low ? 

"I yearn and seek." — Lapped in the 

glad, free main 
And fresh young age, 'twas still thy 

fateful part 
To feel all we have known of fruitless 

strife, — 
The weight of incommunicable pain, 
And passionate longings of the poet-heart 
For some far good, some life beyond all 

life. 



U 



The Quest 

I sought it summer-long, and sought 
in vain, — 
A presence foiling still the senses' 

hold; 
As Pan too ardent for the nymph 
of old 
Clasped but the reeds chiding in 

mournful strain. 
A voice it seemed, heard by the moon- 
lit main, 
A secret left by midnight woods half 

told, 
A vision glimpsed athwart the sunset's 
gold, 
Or fancied in the footsteps of the rain. 

And would the autumn too leave me 

unblest ? 
As in a lonely glen at eve I lay, 
Watching the wind and flying leaves 

at play, 
Beside me, lo, the being of my quest! 
Strange lips a moment to my own she 

prest, 
Murmuring, "Follow still!" and passed 

away. 



12 



The Truants 

"Carry me back to old Virginia," — so I 

heard the maiden play, 
And there came a low voice calling, like 

a mother's, far away: 

Calling to me out of childhood, and the 

golden long ago, 
From the mountains, from the river, and 

the fields that well I know. 

And I lose myself in dreaming how it 

all has been to-day, 
With the autumn sunlight falling on a 

farmstead lone and gray. 

Purple hills and hazy valleys; and the 

mellow silence round 
Broken by the tardy chestnut pattering 

shyly to the ground; 

Far, faint tinkle of the herd-bells, 
stealthy whistling of the quails, 

And the droning of the threshers to the 
falling of the flails. 

Yonder at the highway's parting, where 
the guide-post lifts lame hands, — 



13 



With the wildwood crowding round it, 
still the old brown schoolhouse 
stands. 

There a little boy is sitting, and his 

reader idly falls, 
While he marks the evening sunlight 

slowly creeping up the walls. 
Will it never reach that nail- scratch ?— 

"School dismissed!" the Master 

calls. 

Oh, the stamping and the shouting, 
whispered partings, loud good- 
byes! 

And two little rebels plotting right be- 
neath the Master's eyes. 



II 



Loitering go they, lad and lassie, by the 

lonely forest sides, 
Where her latest, sweetest offerings 

Autumn for her children hides. 

And the richness of the treasures 
gleaned from many a secret nook, 

Undiscovered but for wisdom never 
learned from lore of book! 



14 



What, the twilight come already? And 

how strange it all has grown! 
Hear the waking owlets hooting, and the 

pinetrees how they moan! 
And the withered leaves like spirits 

down the darkening path are 

blown. 

Ever looked the moon so large? and 
moonlight shapes so white and 
long? 

And the forest's formless shadows round 
the truants how they throng! 

But the wide old pasture-gateway takes 
them in its sheltering folds, 

And the tearful little maiden in his arms 
her true knight holds. 

Oh the lips that give and ask not if it be 

to give in vain, 
And the hearts that love and think not — 

only to be loved again! 

Hand in hand across the moonlight — but 
the maiden ceased to play, 

And they fade, the dear dream-children, 
in this alien twilight's gray. 



15 



The Passing of June 

The trees in noontide sleep are still; 
But twinkling leaf or struggling blade, 
With noiseless start of life may thrill 
The tender dream of sun and shade. 

Is it a glimpse of soft blue skies, 

Or shy, sweet glance of bluer eyes 

From leafy covert watching me? 

Is it a pure white cloud at rest, 

Or gleam of whiter arms and breast 

Which through the opening boughs I 

see? 
What subtle breathings o'er me steal! 
Too low to hear, too soft to feel, 
And rousing something kin to fear, 
Which tells some hidden presence near. 
The startled leaves awake aghast, 
And with hushed whisperings reveal 
Some deity of air has passed. 



16 



"Our Lady of the Angels" 

(Picture by W. Bouguereau) 

Clasping her babe, with downcast eyes 
she stands, — 
Not aught divine, save perfect woman- 
hood; 
As if she heard nor wholly understood 
The gratulations of the cherub bands 
That round her lift adoring infant 
hands, — 
Only the mortal mother's pensive 

mood, 
Who knows the burden of her arms 
is good, 
Yet hearing in her heart strange, sad 
commands. 

Not hers, — that sterner northern faith 

is mine, 

But oftentimes God seems so far away, 

So cold, so pitiless those heights divine, 

My frail, sad mortal being feels the 

need 
Of mortal lips with him to intercede: 
And "Mary, mother!" in my heart I 
pray. 



17 



Innomin at a 

Do you remember now the autumn day 
When at the stile we silent took fare- 
well ?— 
For in our hearts was that no words 
could tell. 
Long time we stood, and watched the 

twilight gray 
Wrapping the land, hill after hill, awa,y, 
And close and closer round the 

shadows fell, 
As if some power enmeshed us in its 
spell, 
And still the saving word we might not 
say. 

Then with one look at your mute, hope- 
less face, — 
For passion in such parting must not 
be, — 
Without one kiss, — our separate ways 

we went. 
Would you not call me back? your 
heart relent? 
I turned and looked once more — only 

to see 
The cold white m6onrays, ghostlike, in 
your place. 

18 



II 



You are another's now, and yet I know 
Sometimes that life of yours more 

strange will seem 
Than is to one, startled from midnight 
dream, 
The well known room, lit with the 

moon's weird glow. 
One step out of life's daily round but go, 
And glimpse again the old, long 

vanished gleam, 
And let your feelings through their 
barriers stream — 
How false, how alien grows the painted 
show! 

Your fate is this? Woe's me; it is mine 
own 
With burning lips I tell. And still 
must be, — 
Past strength to bear, save for the hope 
alone 
That time remorseful soon may bring 
the day 
When I need keep no more this mockery, 
But rise and put the masker's things 
away. 



19 



Ill 



Had we but lived in those brave days 
agone, 
Ere custom with her faded maxims 

came, 
When all the heart could win the hand 
might claim, 
And law unto itself was life alone, — 
When love and beauty could almost 
atone 
For anger of the gods, and woe, and 

shame, — 
For Greece deflowered, and Ilion past 
in flame — 
Though never love so fatal as our own, 

Still had we loved! And we had lived 

our life, 
Unvexed with little rules of right and 
wrong 
And babblings vain of high and low de- 
gree,— 
The prize to him who wins in glorious 
strife; 
The perfect crown of manhood to be 

strong, 
Of womanhood, to love and to be free! 



20 



IV 



Helen, in those sweet maiden years, they 

say, 

Unshadowed yet by evil days to come, 

Of doubly broken vows, and ravished 

home, 

To him, her shepherd lad, would steal 

away, 
To love as youth and maiden only may. 
Then, girt with warring hosts, from 

Ilion's steep, 
Spite of the goddess' hest, across the 
deep 
Her thoughts would turn to that far, 
deathless day 

When maid and woman in her being met. 
And I who loved with love so pure 

and true, 
Your virgin lips I might not dare pro- 
fane, — 
It grows a memory and a sweet regret 
That youth and love were given to us 
in vain 
And raptured heart to heart we never 
knew! 



21 



I wonder how with you the years go by: 

Is all your being lowered to the needs 

Of him who on your worth and beauty 

feeds, 

As beasts among the lilies pasturing lie? 

Ah, no ; a soul for such a fate too high, — 

A fruitful presence that forever 

breeds 
A sense of hopefulness, and goodly 
deeds : 
The low, sweet voice, the calm, command- 
ing eye! 

And, lo, I see you to a matron grown, 
With many a child your patient knees 
around, 
And hands that weary not for all who 

claim 
Your ministry, in love's or duty's 
name; 
Yet keeping still, only to memory 
known, 
Deep in your heart, one spot of sacred 
ground. 



22 



Interce s sio n 

To-night, methought, across the moon- 
light's play 
Upon my wall, a shadowy hand was 

thrust, 
And past my lattice, like a wandering 
gust 
Of ghostly wind, that wailing dies away, 
Came a low voice. "A year/' it seemed 
to say, 
"And earth shall hold in her mysteri- 
ous trust 
Thy little all of silent, sightless dust, 
Waiting — some far-off, prophet-promised 
day!" 

And while I listened, awed but undis- 
mayed, 
Half joyed to give life's long, hard 

conflict o'er, 
Came sound of little feet upon my 

floor, 
And touch of soft, warm cheeks 
pressed to my own. 
And through the gloom, with burning 
heart I prayed, 
"Spare me, ye powers, till my brood 
be flown!" 

23 



Among the Laurel 

No seasons come to this green solitude, 
Nor any change with all the varying 

year; 
Life passing into Death so gently here 
That Death is only Life once more re- 
newed. 
Nor even the crisp brown leaves around 
me strewed 
That semblance of eternity can mar, — 
Mine own weird shadow world, un- 
known and far, 
Whose spirit-guarded bournes, with foot- 
ing rude, 

Never may time profane. — And sweet to 
lie 
Under these boughs on long, still 
summer days, 
And, while the hours with noiseless feet 
go by, 
To watch with drowsy, unsuspected 

gaze 
And learn of Life a thousand secret 
ways, 
And mysteries undreamed, of earth and 
sky. 



24 



In June 

Over the summer lands, 

The blossoming clouds float by, — 
Pure lilies flung from angel hands 

On the broad blue deep of the sky: 
Or caught on the mountain strands 

In restless heaps they lie. 



Love Knoweth No Season 

There are beauty and cheer in winter's 
gloom 

To the heart that love makes glad; 
But vain are summer's breath and bloom 

To the heart that love makes sad. 



25 



/ 



The Sout h-S e a Watch 






"The horror of a night watch on the 
beach!" — Letter from The Philippines. 

Is this the end of his dreams? — pacing 

this lonely shore, 
With the strange, dark land behind, and 

the unknown sea before; 
And the land so still in its sorrow, and 

the sea so loud in its grief, 
The myriad moan of the sands, and the 

long, deep roar of the reef: 
And somewhere far in the darkness, for 

ever high over it all, — 
Like the voice of one forsaken, — the 

buoy's lone, wailing call. 

Is this the end of his dreams? — the 

longings of the boy 
For the pomp of drum and cannon, and 

battle's fiery joy: 
To strike one blow for the right, for a 

people long oppressed, 
And to lie, if need be, at last, with the 

flag upon his breast. 



26 



For the battle is not with men, but a 
foe of mightier hand, — 

The unshorn strength of the sun, and the 
riotous life of the land ; 

Where nature, knowing no master, fore- 
goes her kindly way, 

And a sense of the hopeless struggle is 
stronger by night than by day; 

For unknown, and larger and closer, the 
stars burn overhead, 

And the moon, out of dark waters break- 
ing, is grown a thing of dread. 

And, lo, across the moonlight the phan- 
tom caravels go, 

Bearing the white man's lust, and the 
long, long years of woe, — 

The years of rapine and slaughter, the 
patient land has known, 

Till the hands that have sown the whirl- 
wind must reap of the seed they 
have sown. 

And all around in the darkness, voices 
lament and weep, — 

The mighty shades of heroes swarming 
up from their unknown sleep 



27 



In the gloom of the primal forest, in the 
vasty holds of the deep, — 

The dauntless spirits who followed 
those quests of glory and gain, 

Lighting in blood-stained splendour the 
deathless name of Spain. 

But the midnight vision passes, and the 

sea breaks forth in its grief, — 
The myriad moan of the sands and the 

long, deep roar of the reef, 
And somewhere far in the darkness, 

forever high over it all, — 
Like the voice of one forsaken, — the 

buoy's lone, wailing call. 



28 



To Otter Pass 

Dear comrade of my solitude, 

I knew and loved thy every mood, — 

Whether morning's tender glow 

Hung on thy pines; or brooding, slow, 

Over thee shadowless noon would go; 

Or through thy purple depths afar 

Quivered evening's first, faint star. 

rri -ough thee with shy, sweet loitering 
Into our valley came the spring ; 
And somewhere in thy windings lay 
The mystery of night and day. 

There, spying on the ways of earth, 

I watched the clouds in mute, swift 

birth ; 
And found, when all the vales were still, 
The winds at play from hill to hill; 
Or heard by some lone cavern's gloom 
Night's handmaids at their fateful loom. 

Oft through thy beckoning portal sent, 
Into the unknown, fancy went; 
And by thy haunted rocks and streams, 
Wandered the beings of my dreams, — 



29 



Wild, tameless phantoms waiting still 
Some raptured hour's compelling will! 

Fair spot, in memories still renewed, 
Companion of my solitude, 
Now while I watch the twilight fall, 
I hear thy far-off voices call. 



30 



The First Quarrel 

See, love, another day is nearly done: 

Yet, ere we bid once more the sun fare- 
well, 

Come close and let me clasp thy little 
hand, 

And kiss thy lips and clouded forehead 
smooth. — 

So long the day has been without thy love ! 

Dost not remember, dear, how, long ago, 
Bewildered wanderers in an unknown 

world, 
We came to where the slender forest path 
In two uncertain ways did turn aside; 
And long in tearful, clamorous doubt we 

stood, 
Then parting, each went on the way 

deemed right ? 
But soon, lost from the other's sight, 

each paused 
And loudly called; and back we ran, — 

embraced, 
And then went on together, right or 

wrong. — 
So, dear, together let us always go, 
Content with love, even though the way 

be wrong. 

31 



The Builders 

I heard the voice of Liberty 
Cry to a people young and free: 
"Build ye a dwelling-place for me!" 

The rich brought gifts that rarely shone ; 
The poor gave naught but common stone. 

And the temple grew; and the years 

stole by 
Till the people murmured,"We build and 

die!" 

But, lo, the work at last is done, — 
Though sons have ended what sires 
begun, — 

And splendor on splendor afar is rolled 
From walls and pillars crowned with 
gold; 

And sparkling spires and towers proud 
Prick through the breast of the wonder- 
ing cloud. 



32 



II 



But in the night a sad voice came, 
"Oh builders, woe for your work of 
shame ! 

"For with those gifts the rich have 

brought, 
Much sin and wrong into all is 

wrought. 

"And your gilded towers are gilded in 
vain, 

For the tears of my people their bright- 
ness stain. 

"And my image aloft, which should 

beacon the land, 
Was wrung from many a starving 

hand!" 

— And when the fateful morrow shone, 
Only abode the walls of stone. 



33 



My Better Angel 

Beings unseen upon us mortals wait. 
I wake at night and find them 

gathered there, 
Watching my sleep, — some gentle- 
miened and fair; 
Some formless, sexless, terrible as fate. 
Some change and pass: but two in 
changeless state 
Round me forever move, ill-mated 

pair; 
Nor either's hands may grant the gifts 
they bear, 
Each foiling each, fruitless in love, and 
hate. 

One seems all hope; the other, doubts 
and fears; 
This, darkly veiled, mysterious as the 

night; 
That other, white enrobed, with brow 
of light: 
Yet gazing backward o'er the long, long 
years, 
The twain in transformation strange 
I see, 
And know not which my better angel be. 



34 



Decadence 

They weary us, — those mighty bards of 
old 
Who sang alcne of war and fateful 

wrong, 
Their accents for our tired lives too 
strong, 
Which all the voices of the past must 

hold. 
And Ilion's woe, divinest tale e'er told, 
Can win us not; nor Milton's seraph 

song: 
And even he, lord of the buskined 
throng, 
Speaks in a language harsh and over- 
bold. 

Better in time's still, pensive noon to lie 
Mid the sweet grass, on lonely pasture 

slopes — 
Some lowly poet's new-discovered 

rhymes, 
A far white hamlet, with its faint-heard 

chimes, 
Murmur of youth and maiden loitering 

by, 

And all our little world of dreams and 
hopes. 

35 



The Martyr's Thorn 

You see it there upon the plain below, — 

Leafless and grim and gray, though it is 
June: 

With one dark rent made by the light- 
ning's thrust. 

Yet life it has, and widens year by year, 

Eating the green away. 

Such tales men tell! 
Some hold it sprung of blood shed in the 

days 
When man and beast strove, while the 

people gazed; 
And one dying amid the shouts had 

prayed 
His blood might be a curse unto the 

land; 
And other tales, — all meaningless to 

him, 
My sire, who pastured where none other 

dared. 

And when first waked to life, I sprawled 

and rolled 
Among the ewes and lambs, — my mother 

dead; 



36 



While yet inconscious of my father's 
face, 

The Thorns, stretching their vast gray 
coils along, 

Forever seemed to watch me where I 
lay. 

Motionless, silent, would they stand day- 
long, 

But when night fell, and from the dark- 
ling hills 

The winds came down, moaning across 
the plains, 

The Thorns would rouse with hissings 
hoarse and deep, 

Like monstrous breathings of a dragon 
brood. 

Then grown in years and strength, the 

care was mine 
To guard the flock from straying by the 

Thorns, 
Which spared not even the bird that 

sought to build 
Among their boughs. — I watched an 

eagle once 
Laden with prey and flying heavily past, 



37 



Sink, vainly striking with his mighty 

wings 
Against those fatal toils. And when a 

lamb 
Unwitting strayed anear, it came not 

back; 
And sad it was to hear the helpless 

flock 
Answer with piteous bleat the victim's 

cries. 
For none dared rescue what the Thorns 

would claim. 
But he, my fearless sire, in youth's mad 

years, 
Had wrested once an eanling from their 

hold, 
And for it, ever bore on arm and hand 
The livid marks, as of an eagle's clutch. 

A quaint black lamb best of the flock I 

loved ; 
At first, for being cast off by its dam, 
Then for the very care it made, with 

ways 
That marked it for a victim of the 

Thorns, 
For daily would it seek the rich sweet 

grass 

38 



Growing beneath to lure the Thorn's 

their prey. 
And once I plucked it with my crook 

away, 
When on its throat a bough had fixed its 

fangs. 
The shepherds bade me leave it to its 

fate, 
Nor rouse the vengeance of those demon 

powers 
Which bided, watching from the strange 

dark boughs. 

One summer eve^ a storm was coming 

on j 
And everywhere was the wild din of bells 
And whimpering lambs and calling 

mother-ewes, 
And mid it all, my little nursling gone. 
The folding done, heedless of breaking 

storm, 
And gathering gloom, and warning voice 

of sire, 
I hastened towards the spot, and saw the 

lamb 
Cropping at ease within a young bird's 

flight 



39 



Of the dread boughs, and deaf to all my 

calls. 
With wary steps, though fearless, I drew 

near, 
And catching up the culprit, turned to 

flee, 
When from its hiding place a thorn- 
branch rose 
Clutching my feet, and cast me to the 

ground. 
I flung the lamb aside, and strove to 

rise, 
Yet lay as in a dream, and felt the 

thing 
Wrapping about me with its snaky 

folds, 
And heard a hideous hissing overhead, 
As on from end to end the thorns 

awoke, 
With horrid writhing of their ravenous 

arms. 
Then broke the storm in one vast torrent 

of light, — 
One peal, like shoutings of the hosts of 

heaven ; 



40 



And still I lay and seemed to dream 
wild dreams, 

Of beings moving round me clothed in 
white, 

And voices speaking in a tongue un- 
known, 

All mixing in vague tumult — and I 
knew no more. 

They found me lying senseless but un- 
scathed, 

There where the storm's fierce stroke 
had rent the Thorns. — 

What of the lamb? We never saw it 
more. 



41 



Decadence — Renascence 

We see the beginning of England's de- 
cadence. — Paris Journal. 

Let us not dream, her work shall come to 
naught, 
Whose hands have made the desert 

place to bloom, 
And quickened into light the jungle's 
gloom, 
And peace and order to confusion taught. 

It may be she at times has blindly 
wrought, 
Not fearing in her wrath to earn the 

doom 
That warns us in some despot nation's 
tomb; 
Or seemed at point to fail from all she 
sought. 

And yet, has she once stayed her hands 

to know 
What blessing to her toil the years 

would send? 
Or taken thought save in her strength 

to sow? — 



42 



And this one glory let old England 

keep, 
Though craven hands should of her 
harvest reap, — 
Her best she gave, howe'er might fall 
the end. 

II 

And who are they wouM have thee over- 
thrown, 
And for soaie chance-sent hour of 

vantage wait, 
Like wolves that watch afar the 
sheepfold gate ? — 
First he, that tyrant of the wintry 

throne, 
Untrusting, trustless, inscrutable, alone, 
Guarding an heritage of senseless 

hate. 
And she, that fair, false land, bound 
to a fate 
Hopeless as his of old^ who rolled the 
stone. 

These are thy foes. — Remembering all 

thou art, 
Eemembering the past, how canst thou 

fail? 



43 



Only have done with thought of peace 

and gain, 
And babblings of the dreamers, fond 
and vain; 
And thy stern hour of trial shall but 

avail 
To rouse once more thy great, heroic 
heart. 



My Silent Guest 

In the lone night she comes 
And clasps her hand in mine; 

We speak not: silence has 
A language more divine. 

Day with its weary strife, 

Night with its gloom, forgot: 

Soul and soul are wandering 
Where day and night come not. 



44 



Deat h-B ells 

I hear it often now, — a phantom strain, 
Corning I know not whence, of tolHng 

bell; 
Like those whereof the old-world 
legends tell, 
Heard from dead cities lost amid the 
main. 

To-day, across the silent years of pain, 
With meaning new and sweet their 

voices swell : 
And all that was, and might have 
been, seems well, 
And good it were to live and strive 
again. 

Are they, as gossips teach ns in their 

lore, 
The spirit message of some passing 

soul ? — 
What matter now to me? who can but 

know 
Down the dim, unreturning way I go, 
And hear, above that far, funereal toll, 
Moaning of waters on life's farthest 

shore. 

45 



Over My Mother's Grave 

We have left you alone, oh mother, — nor 
love could help or save, — 

Alone with the storm and the night, and 
the darker night of the grave. 

Must it be? That faithful heart must 
we yield to darkness and dust? — 

'Tis God's and nature's law; and God, 
men say, is just. 

What are law and justice to me? Can 
they for death atone? 

Or reason's voice, oh mother, make an- 
swer for your own? 

Dark, dark, — and your soul like a flow- 
er turned ever to the light: 

All's darkness without, — what hope of a 
morn to that other night? 

Oh the silence, which wind and rain 
make deeper and more deep! 

I have watched till dumb, blind fear at 
my heart begins to creep. 



46 



The Watchers of the Hearth 

Beside my hearthstone watching late, 
I mark the quivering words of fate 
Which over the dying embers run. 

Oh fearful heart, what may they 
mean ? — 
"That thou thy dearest wish hast won 
And gained what thou hast never known, 
A something thou canst call thy own: 
A love thou shalt not need to woo, 
Or question whether false or true: 
A tender life which thou canst shape 

To all thy nobler self had been." 
But, lo, the embers fall agape: 
The wavering, flame-wrought words are 

fled 
With half their meaning still unread. 
And all my soul is hushed in dread, 
To see beyond the threshold wait, 
Like wolves before the sheepf old gate, 
A thousand lurking shapes of sin 
To claim the new-born life within: 
And round its bed a shadowy throng, — 
Like those grim gossips which of old 
With woven pace and fateful song, 
Their revels at each childbirth held. 



47 



Too well I know each, mated pair 
Of boding spirits gathered there: 
Wan Sorrow leaning hard on Care, 
And Shame that clutched the skirts of 

Fame, 
And One there was that bore no name. 

A dreary voice the silence broke, 

And slowly, darkly Sorrow spoke: 

"May not the Mother have her own? — 

Whatever in thee is divine, 

Whatever of beauty thou hast known, 

Or rapture felt, is it not mine? 

And mine this little life of thine ! " 

Then spoke the spirit without name : 
"The evil angel of thy race, 
This latest-born I wholly claim, 
And nought may save from my em- 
brace." 

"Oh God,, is there no help?" I cried. 
"Is all to my sweet babe refused 
Save that harsh way my feet have 
used?" — 



48 



A sad voice murmured at my side: 
"This being then to me confide!" 
I turned and, lo, the Shining One, 
Whose work is ne'er in gladness done, 
But gladly through that grim array, 
Still following to the gates of day, 
I saw him bear my babe away. 



The Death of Balder 

The sun went down to-night 

A quivering heart, 
Pierced to its core of light 

With a rayless, rugged dart 
Flung from the Titan hands 
Of a shape which stands 
Darkening all the summer lands. 



49 



Lear 

"Thou liast her a France: let her be 

thine" . . Lear, 
Thy madman's fateful words no further 

say, 
And destiny's recording finger stay! 
Thy woeful wish that now, unmeant, 

must tear 
Thy heart with anguish, lo, such fruit 

shall bear, 
Even that unfeeling Hand holds in dis- 
may. 
Cast not the flower of thy heart away: 
To thy "begone," for answer may we 

hear 
Break from thy withered lips, "Thou'lt 

come no more!" 
And so fate hourly hears, and with stern 

hand 
Records, some wish in fatal moment 

made, 
Some curse on those for whom we should 

have prayed. 
In vain would we recall, in vain deplore 
What fixed and sure as God's own law 

shall stand. 



50 



The Children 

No more of work ! Yet ere I seek iny bed, 
Noiseless into the children's room I go, 
With its four little couches all a-row, 

And bend a moment over each dear head. 

Those soft; round arms upon the pillow 
spread, 
These dreaming lips babbling more 

than we know, 
One tearful, smothered sigh of baby 
woe — 
Fond words of chiding, would they were 
unsaid! 

And while on each moist brow a kiss I 
lay, 
With tremulous rapture grown almost 

to pain, 
Close at my side I hear a whispered 

name: — 
Our long-lost babe, who with the 
dawning came, 
And in the midnight went from us 

again. 
And with bowed head, one good-night 
more I say. 



51 



At Dawn 

A single star has paused on high, 
Lone wanderer from the fold of night, 
Lost in the troubled light 
Where dark and dawn dispute the sky. 

And so in weary doubt I pause, 
Lost in a world of jarring laws, — 
Still failing of some primal cause, 
And hearing still within my breast 
A voice that whispers: "All is best! 
What though thy faltering vision fail 
To spell one letter of the tale 
Written upon night's mystic veil? — 
A little, and 'twill be withdrawn 
From the clear, tranquil face of dawn." 



52 



The Maiden's Song 

Awhile I lingered by the way, 
To hear a little maid at play 
Singing with broken tone and word 
A sweet old song that she had heard, — 
Broken the words^ the music more, 
And as she sang it o'er and o'er, 
Something there was — unheard — ex- 
pressed 
Youth's first dim longings and unrest. 



And did I dream I heard the maid 
Who singing by life's wayside played, — 
A woman now, — sing o'er and o'er 
The sweet old song she sang before? 

But now with added tone and word, 
And something more than these I heard. 



53 



By the Sea 

Bewildered 'mong the endless dunes, 
We came at last upon the sea, — 

Two wanderers, little May and I, 
And inland born were we. 

Only the changeless hills we knew, 
The lone, still woods, the pastured 
meads, 
And streams which seemed but made to 
serve 
Our daily human needs. 

In this dread presence awed we stood, 
Its mightiness untrameled, nude; 

With one far sail which did but hint 
The meaning of that solitude. 

So strange it was, beyond all dreams: 
Yet was it something I had known, — 

The wonder of the primal child 
Restored unto his own. 

'Twas more than life renewed, — I felt 
The weight of ages from me fall, 

And heard from immemorial years 
Ancestral voices call. 



54 



II 



We drew in solitude apart. 

And far along the seashore went, — 
The child at play, and I on dreams 

Of all I knew not what, intent. 

And found a nook, — we loved to think, — 
Where never yet came human thing: 

Known but to sea and sun and wind 
And shadow of the seabird's wing. 

And while I lay and heard wild songs 
Slow gathering in the surge's beat, 

Among the sand-hills, in and out, 
Wandered the busy little feet. 

To-day, mid inland scenes once more, 
How passing strange that such might 
be, — 

For quiet fields the long gray beach 
And boundless turmoil of the sea. 

And dream-like grows all else beside 
One song heard in the surge's beat, 

And one lone nook amid the waste 
Guarding the print of little feet. 



55 



Ill 

To-morrow must we bravely go 

Back to the old calm life once more, 

And lose what was so newly won, 
Our heritage of sea and shore. 

How far off seems that other life, 

How cheap its joys, straitened its 
ways, 

As from the beach we turn to go, 
And linger still and seaward gaze. 

A moment hangs the broad red sun, 
Then sinks; and eastward gleams a 
star; 
And twilight comes, with glimpse of 
wings 
Ghostlike on glooming skies afar. 

Freshen the winds, and one wild din 
Of swirling shapes grows all below, 

And half in fear the little maid 

Whispers beside me, "Let us go!" 



56 



The Wkaith of Roanoke 

Like a mist of the sea at morn it comes, 
Gliding among the fisher-homes, — 
The vision of a woman fair; 
And every eve beholds her there 

Above the topmost dune, 
With fluttering robe and streaming hair, 
Seaward gazing in dumb despair, 
Like one who begs of the waves a boon. 

Lone ghost of the daring few who came 
And, passing, left but a tree-carved name 

And the mystery of Croatan: 
And out of our country's dawning years 
I hear the weeping of woman's tears: 
With a woman's eyes I dimly scan, 
Day after day the far blue verge, 
And pray of the loud unpitying surge, 
And every wind of heaven, to urge 
The sails that alone can succor her 

fate, — 
The wigwam dark and the savage mate, 
The love more cruel than crudest hate, — 
Still burns on her cheek that fierce hot 

breath, — 
And the shame too bitter to hide in 

death. 



57 



The Vision of the Milk-white Doe 

The hunter by his lonely fire 
Wakens in sweet, unknown desire, 
To watch by the dim, delusive light 
What seems a woman in raiment white, 
Among the forest shadows go: — 
Lingering it goes, and backward turns, 
Like some sad spirit that vainly yearns 
To break the bonds of its voiceless woe; 
But the light flares up from the dying 

brands, 
And gazing out of the darkness stands 
Only a milk-white doe. 

A moment he marks her large dark eyes 

Gazing in mournful human wise, 

Then falters and sinks the faithless 

light. 
Again the gleam as of raiment white, 
The woods are stirred with a footfall 

slight ; 
And like the dawn-wind wandering by, 
The presence fades with a deep drawn 

sigh, 
As breaks a far-heard, phantom sound 
Of galloping steed and baying hound — 
Then only the silence and the night. 



58 



Worship 

Was never day of God so calm and fair! 
Yet listening, underneath the breath- 
less still, 
I hear the mighty forest-heart athrill, 
And murmurings as of worship every- 
where. 

Nor even the weary, chiding voice of care 
Shall mar the silent blessing of the 

morn, — 
Borne over sad gray fields of garnered 
corn, 
From wrangling village bells which call 
to prayer. 

Deeper, oh sheltering trees, let me yet 

go; 
And while ye fling the leaves of sum- 
mer dead, 
So like a whispered blessing, round 
my head, 
And childlike on earth's patient breast 
I lean, 
Teach me the secret of your calm to 
know, 
And all this restless, aching heart 
can mean. 



The Toiler's Plea 

At last the day is done! 
Oh, life is a useless, cruel thing 
When day unto day so little may bring, 
Almost I hate the light and the sun, — 
When To-morrow is but To-day lived 

o'er, 
With one day's cares and sorrows more. 

I murmur not that I needs must toil, 
Though I measure each moment by a 

stroke, 
Yet even the patient beast will recoil 
Before the senseless, galling yoke. 
And I, must I tamely bear To-day and 

its ills 
For the promise To-morrow never ful- 
fills? 

Day after day, 

To go the fruitless, fate-bound way 
Which sorely yesterday I came, — 
Unending yet forever the same: 
Where wander shadows grim and gaunt, 
And if I pause, from out their haunt 
Start, Fury-like, the hounds of Want, 



60 



OCTOBEE 

Once more they come, the blest October 

days, 
Bringing their holy calm and rest com- 
plete, 
And hour-long dreaming, with the sun's 

warm rays 
Like gentle hands, clasping the weary 

feet. 
And gentler now are all our human 

ways, 
With nature's harshest tones grown low 

and sweet,- 
And dreamlike lost amid the far blue 

haze 
The eye tells not where earth and heaven 

meet. 

No more to-day for alien gifts I pray: 
Enough it is the while to live and love: 
To sit amid my peopled solitude, 
And listening to my little ones at play, 
(As bending o'er her nestlings broods the 

dove, ) 
Over the measure of my bliss to brood. 



61 



At Twilight 

Yon sullen-fronted cloud has grown 
To twilight steeps that I have known, 
Yet with a wonder all their own: 
And where in azure vales they end 
Radiant Msenad throngs ascend, 
And — is it truth or fancy vain? — 
There comes a far-off mystic strain; 
Such strains as now no more are heard, 
Guessed at in the song of bird 
Or whispering of moonlit trees, 
With something sweeter still than these: 
World-old rapture, world-old woe, 
As when Pentheus long ago 
Heard in Cithaeron's valleys dim 
The young god's new, diviner hymn. 

A moment's pause, of breathless hush — 
What wings unseen around me brush! — 
And, lo, the Maenad throngs are fled, 
And up the darkling sky instead 
Glides a mute shape in hooded gray, 
With face turned from the earth away — 
Lone spirit of the day that's dead. 



62 



On Looking into an Old Tomb 

Is this the end? Is all the story told 
Sternly in these gaunt, iron-guarded 

jaws ? 
That needless warn the living here to 
pause 
Nor further seek death's mysteries to 
unfold. 

Within, the sunlight wanders dim and 
cold, — 
Nature herself foiled by those elder 

laws; 
And darkness rises up and closer 
draws 
Her veil of dread about the helpless 
mould. 

Better deep hidden in the breast of 
earth, 
From life's rude gaze and day's unfeel- 
ing light,— 
Dust unto dust returning not in vain, 
Though lost, forgotten, in that primal 
night; , 

For earth, mute mother of this life 
of pain, 
May hold the secret of another birth. 
63 



The Legend of the Valley 

Into this valley long ago, — but lost are 

time and name, — 
An old man and a maid with the falling 

twilight came; 

Down Otter's mystic heights, that bring 

the light of morn, 
Where the old moons fail and pass, and 

first the stars are born. 

Come from the wondrous race men told 

of, far away? 
Or children of the stars wandered to 

earth were they ? — 

With the heathen folk they dwelt, and 
taught them of their lore, 

Till the Master's praise was hymned 
where the war-chant pealed before. 



When the first settlers came to 
Arnold's Valley, among the Blue Ridge 
mountains, they found it uninhabited by 
the Indians; and a shadow of the story 
here told lingered about the place. 



64 



No more the tortured victim, the bale- 
fire's lurid light; 

And earth once dark with slaughter, 
with harvest now is white. 

But still upon the hill-top loomed one 

grim altar-stone, 
And from his place one faithful priest 

waited and watched — alone. 

The moons they wax and wither, the 

years they pass away, 
And on the valley and its folk there fell 

an evil day. 

From the coming of the spring-time till 

fall-time came again, 
The sun poured from a pitiless sky with 

never a drop of rain; 
And the old man and the maiden prayed 

to their God in vain. 

The fields lay dead, the woods loomed 

leafless on the hill, 
And where the brooks were loud before, 

now all is sad and still, 
And slinking through the valley, the 

river flowed — a rill. 



65 



Then roused in savage hearts the beast 

which long had slept, 
And round the hapless pair in nearer 

circles crept; 

And when the Hunter's Moon full on the 
Valley shone, 

Again the bale-fire gleamed on the fatal 
altar-stone, 

And to the angry gods went up the vic- 
tims' moan. 

And, lo, the gods have answered their 

erring people's cry: 
Round Otter's sacred head the gathering 

storm- shapes fly; 
Afar the winds are heard and darkened 

is the sky. 

And a sound like many waters sweeps up 

the steep hillside, 
The stones are rent asunder, the flames 

are scattered wide, 
And storm and flame their vengeance 

take for the gentle pair that died. 



66 



And when the Britons came, bringing the 

newer day, 
Silent, untenanted, the lovely valley lay. 

But still down Otter's heights, at lonely 

eventide, 
The old man and the maiden come, to 

bless the country-side, 
Or linger by the unblest spot where not 

in vain they died. 



67 



CONFES SION 

Nay, once I loved, or thought I did; 

And love's ideal deified, — 

Wait, dear, and hear before you chide, — 

But drew at last the veil aside 

To find beneath a mortal hid, — 

To feel, when from her, reason's scorn 

Of feelings all of passion born: 

Nor could I claim her wholly mine, 

Nor all of self to her resign. 

Her face, I own, was fair and sweet, 
And yet there wanted just a touch — 
A little something — still so much, 
It left the picture incomplete. 
But, dearest, all is perfect here. 
No more does love with doubt divide 
My heart, nor reason passion chide, 
For passion now is glorified 
With angel-light, when thou art near. 

It shames thee, love, to call thee fair: 
Hands, bosom, lips, eyes, forehead, hair, 
So fitly made, so perfect are, 
No wish could alter save to mar. 
My love, I claim thee wholly mine, 
Yet all of self to thee resign. 



68 



To the Evening Stae 

Oh Evening Star, I hail thy slender 

light 
That eastward kindles ere the west 

grows dim; 
Nor gladlier does the homesick wanderer 
Hail thee to-night on far-off, unknown 

seas. 

A year has passed since I beheld thee 

first, 
When in my weary midnight watching 

thou 
Didst greet me with thy hopeful, cheer- 
ing glance: 
Each night a little earlier wouldst thou 

come, 
As if to lend my failing strength thy 

aid. 

A year — brief time, but all my life is 

changed ; 
Whilst thou dost ever surely westward 

go, 
And evening after evening finds thee still 
Higher and higher up the eastern sky; 
And yet the way is steep, the west how 

far! 

69 



Veb Tenebeosum 

The winds are warm, and everywhere 
The springs of life are waking, 

But last year's leaves are withered still, 
Though violets through them are 
breaking. 

No sense of its bloom the clinging vine 
To the sapless stake can bring; 

And what to me of good can come 
With the glad new life of spring ? 

In vain along my forest ways 

The flowers wait for me ; 
I cannot find a bud of hope 

Or blossom of memory. 

Your sweetest songs, O mating birds, 

In vain to me you sing; 
My dark, cold life no answer gives 

To the messages you bring. 



70 



Isaac 

"Wood fur marster; TcinHin" wood" 
— Negro Melody. 

Where the pine-woods in the twilight 
murmur sadly of the past, 

Singing goes he, with the fagots o'er his 
bended shoulder cast, — 

Poor old Isaac, of a vanished time and 
order, best and last. 

And his song is of the master, many a 

year now in his grave', 
Loved as brother loveth brother, — 

worthy master, worthy slave. 

"Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood!" — 
oh, the memory of the days 

Blessed with more than ease and plenty, 
freer hearts and gentler ways. 

Once again 'tis Christmas morning, and 
I watch with sleepless eyes 

Where the phantom of the Yule log 'mid 
its ashes glimmering lies. 



71 



Isaac's horn, without, is sounding day- 
break summons unto all, — 

Mansion, cabin, byre and sheepfold, 
waken to the mellow call. 

And 'tis Isaac's noiseless shadow starts 
the pine-knots into flame; 

To the trundle-bed then stealing, 
whispers low each sleeper's name, 

Loving forfeit of the children, who but 
Isaac first to claim? 

And he tells of many a secret Santa 
Claus alone should know, — 

Mysteries that will not wait the morn- 
ing's tardy light to show. 

And the treasures without number fash- 
ioned by the dear old hand — 

Childhood's inmost, sweetest longings, 
who so well could understand? 

Christ, who so loved little children, bless 
him in that better land J 

For no more the aged figure comes at 

sunset down the way: 
Yonder stands his empty cabin slowly 

yielding to decay. 



72 



Weeds and creepers now are struggling 
where we played before the door, 

And the rabbit hides her litter there be- 
neath the sunken floor. 

Trees are springing where the pathway 

to the master's mansion led, 
And the feet which trooped along it, all 

are vanished, some are dead. 
"Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood!" — 

comes the old remembered strain; 
Hush! 'tis Isaac softly singing by his 

cabin door again! 

— Only swallows in the twilight round 

the chimney twittering go, 
Mournful token of the hearthstone cold 

and tenantless below. 
In the old forsaken garden, sleeps the 

master, sleeps the slave: 
And the pines to-night are sighing o'er 

each unremembered grave. 



73 



Two Brothers 



Mountains on mountain shouldering 

crowd around 
To gaze down on the scene they guard 

so well, — 
The valley with its fields and woods and 

streams, 
And long red highway clasping the green 

hills, 
And one staid meetinghouse whose 

mottled face 
Peers down the windy knoll where foot- 
paths join 
From many a farmstead hidden among 

its trees. 

In yonder quaint-eaved house, — its vir- 
gin white 

Cast long ago aside for sober gray, — 

The brothers lived, Edward and Francis 
Hale. 

The valley's gentle life they made their 
own, — 



. 



74 



Of pastures fragrant with the clover's 

bloom, 
And orchards where the bees droned 

all day long; 
Of many a brook rolling from unknown 

springs, 
And lone, deep woods whose mysteries 

they loved; 
With later years bringing the summer's 

task 
No graver than to meet with flock and 

herd 
On dewy upland fields, the sun's first 

beams, 
Or follow evening's well known shadows 

home. 

And when with autumn's fulness, school- 
time came, 

Edward each morning tarried by the 
road, 

While Francis hastened down the leafy 
lane 

To meet their only playmate, Alice 
Day — 

The little maid who comes with light- 
some treau 



75 



That hardly stirs the withered leaves be- 
neath, 

Her cheeks aglow and tameless locks 
afloat 

And eyes brighter than dew-wet vio- 
lets, — 

A mimic thunder-cloud of woman-kind, 

Bearing the lightning glance and stormy 
word, 

Caresses soft as touch of summer rain, 

And kisses fragrant as the breath of 
May. 

Two faithful knights attend the little 

queen, — 
One bears her tiny basket, one her books, 
While each from bulging pockets loyally 
Pours out his daily hoarded offerings. 
And on they go, with sight of smoking 

brook, 
And wintry shape crouching by stone 

and bush, 
And keen sweet smell of frost on 

withered leaves, — 
All wakening in their hearts a nameless 

joy- 



76 



II 



Alas, when from the gentle, happy pair 
Youth fell away, and Francis' heart 

awoke 
To wild, blind longings in his narrow 

life. 
A love of solitude it was at first, 
And day-long dreamings of he knew not 

what, — 
A low, sweet whispering of another life, 
Far-off and strange, beyond the sunlit 

hills. 
And louder grew the voice in the still 

night, 
Till from a restless couch the lad would 

rise 
Like one remembering duty which the 

day 
Can bring nor strength to do nor will to 

shun. 

Each day, he dimly yearned, would bring 

a change, — 
Something to rouse new hope, or even 

fear. 
Some unexpected ill had welcome been. 



L.ofC. 
77 



Gone were the simple joys of other 

days,— 
The clean, fresh smell of new-turned 

earth at morn, 
Far fragrance of the cornfields after 

rain, 
And sight of eager-crowding flock and 

herd 
Fearlessly feeding from the hand they 

loved. 

And much he read,, but from the little 

store 
Of treasured books ofttimes he turned 

away 
As from his daily dole the sick man 

turns 
And loathes the food, and hand that 

proffers it. 

Companionship he shunned, — most, that 

he loved. 
The faithful brother, even the one maid, 
No more had power to win him from 

those thoughts 
Stealing youth's freshness from his 

brow and cheek. 



78 



And Edward cherished secretly at heart 
Resentment toward the gentle, blameless 

one 
Whose love, he thought, had saddened 

Francis' life, 
While she, her simple wiles all put to 

proof, 
And waiting for the word which never 

came, 
Grew cold, if youth and maiden chanced 

to meet. 

And much he loved to roam the upland 

wilds 
And trace to parent spring the headlong 

stream, 
Or scale exultantly the loftiest peak, 
And with a mighty rush of feeling see 
The nearer, wider heavens over him bend, 
And spread below, a fairer, unknown 

world ; 
Then late returning, find his home grown 

strange, 
And faces as of strangers round the 

hearth. 



79 



/ 



But autumn brought a change. A learned 

man 
Knowing the longings of the younger 

heart, 
Stooped down and reached a kindly, sav- 
ing hand. — 
To-day the old life ends, the new begins : 
Yet ere he passes from his lowly home 
Does Francis visit each beloved spot 
Which but a day has made so dear 
again. 

On yonder hill's blue top, the brothers 
part: 

One last long look behind, and he is 
gone, 

While Edward watches the slow-lessen- 
ing form, 

Till lost to tear-dimmed eyes among the 
hills, 

And turns and finds the valley desolate 

As, home returning from the new-made 
grave, 

The childless mother finds the vacant 
room. 






80 



Ill 



A lone man sits amid high walls of 

books ; 
The pen is dropped, his head bent on his 

breast. 
A wandering cry out of the busy street, 
The happy sounds of little ones at play, 
Have filled his heart with sudden, bliss- 
ful tears, 
And brought such visions of forgotten 

years 
As fancy loves to paint on evening 

clouds, — 
A quaint old house, sending above its 

trees 
Long wreaths of smoke, while far and 

near are sounds 
From fields and farmyard telling day is 

done; 
And lingering at the stile, maiden and 

youth 
Who feign to watch the far-off sunset 

hills— 
A phantom hand across the glory steals, 
And all is twilight's gray reality. 

The brother sits beside his cheery 
hearth, 

81 



Hearing the cricket's high, unvaried 

mirth, 
And earnest talk of child and mother 

near, — 
For wife and babes are there, — but wife 

nor child 
May hush the sigh breathed for his 

buried life. 
A fair-haired, blue-eyed boy steals to his 

side 
And claims a goodnight kiss. The father 

stoops 
And blindly kisses twice the fresh 

young lips — 
For one who long ago was all as dear. 

And she! who waits for one that never 

comes, 
Making her springtime of a withered 

rose; 
Whose patient bosom tremulously beats 
To hear the sudden knock, the stranger's 

voice, 
Or flutters with dim hope when from the 

way 
She sees the unknown traveller turn 

aside. 



82 



The Broken Prayer. 

"So tired!" All day have gone the 
restless feet 
Lured on by wonders of the new- 
waked earth, 
The teeming May time's miracles of 
birth, — 
Till weariness at last is bliss complete. 
The lambs along the pasture slopes yet 
fleet, 
And mating birds are gossiping on 

bough, 
And fireflies kindle by the stream; 
but now 
"So tired, so tired!" the drowsy lips re- 
peat. 

What if the evening prayer be left half 
said! 
As by the mother's knee, o'er folded 
hands 
Silently droops the little golden head. 
I lift the sleeping form with jealous 
care, 
And guarding in my heart the broken 
prayer, 
I know that One has heard and 
understands. 

83 



"As Some L o ne Drudge." 

As some lone drudge that hoards his 
mites of gold, 
Rising at night to count them o'er and 

o'er, 
Will check his joy and thrust them 
by once more, 
Fearful lest evil eyes his wealth behold; 
So, when warm baby arms my neck en- 
fold, 
And fair young heads on breast and 

knee are prest, 
I feign to think myself poor and un- 
blest, 
Lest those dread, watchful powers, en- 
vious and cold, 

The secret jewels of my heart should 
know. 
And when at night I wake and seem 
to hear, 
Somewhere the hush of noiseless feet 
that go 
In stealthy search, like footfalls of 
the blind, — 
I whisper to my heart all dumb with 
fear, 
"What if thy treasures even now they 
find?" 

84 



X>eo U &Ql 



DEC 10 1901 

1 COPY DEL TO CAT. 01V. 
DEC. 11 1901 

DEC. 12 J 901 



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